 | Pierre, or, The ambiguities |  |
III.
In the fine old robust times of Pierre's grandfather, an American
gentleman of substantial person and fortune spent his time
in a somewhat different style from the green-house gentlemen
of the present day. The grandfather of Pierre measured six
feet four inches in height; during a fire in the old manorial
mansion, with one dash of his foot, he had smitten down an
oaken door, to admit the buckets of his negro slaves; Pierre
had often tried on his military vest, which still remained an
heirloom at Saddle Meadows, and found the pockets below
within its buttoned girth; in a night-scuffle in the wilderness
before the Revolutionary War, he had annihilated two Indian
savages by making reciprocal bludgeons of their heads.
And all this was done by the mildest hearted, and most blue-eyed
gentleman in the world, who, according to the patriarchal
fashion of those days, was a gentle, white-haired worshiper of
all the household gods; the gentlest husband, and the gentlest
father; the kindest of masters to his slaves; of the most wonderful
unruffledness of temper; a serene smoker of his after-dinner
pipe; a forgiver of many injuries; a sweet-hearted,
charitable Christian; in fine, a pure, cheerful, childlike, blue-eyed,
divine old man; in whose meek, majestic soul, the lion
and the lamb embraced—fit image of his God.
Never could Pierre look upon his fine military portrait without
an infinite and mournful longing to meet his living aspect
in actual life. The majestic sweetness of this portrait was truly
wonderful in its effects upon any sensitive and generous-minded
young observer. For such, that portrait possessed the heavenly
persuasiveness of angelic speech; a glorious gospel framed and
hung upon the wall, and declaring to all people, as from the
Mount, that man is a noble, god-like being, full of choicest
juices; made up of strength and beauty.
Now, this grand old Pierre Glendinning was a great lover of
horses; but not in the modern sense, for he was no jockey;—
one of his most intimate friends of the masculine gender was a
huge, proud, gray horse, of a surprising reserve of manner, his
saddle-beast; he had his horses' mangers carved like old trenchers,
out of solid maple logs; the key of the corn-bin hung
in his library; and no one grained his steeds, but himself; unless
his absence from home promoted Moyar, an incorruptible
and most punctual old black, to that honorable office. He said
that no man loved his horses, unless his own hands grained
them. Every Christmas he gave them brimming measures. “I
grand old Pierre always rose at sunrise; washed his face and
chest in the open air; and then, returning to his closet, and being
completely arrayed at last, stepped forth to make a ceremonious
call at his stables, to bid his very honorable friends
there a very good and joyful morning. Woe to Cranz, Kit,
Douw, or any other of his stable slaves, if grand old Pierre
found one horse unblanketed, or one weed among the hay that
filled their rack. Not that he ever had Cranz, Kit, Douw, or
any of them flogged—a thing unknown in that patriarchal time
and country—but he would refuse to say his wonted pleasant
word to them; and that was very bitter to them, for Cranz,
Kit, Douw, and all of them, loved grand old Pierre, as his
shepherds loved old Abraham.
What decorous, lordly, gray-haired steed is this? What
old Chaldean rides abroad?—'Tis grand old Pierre; who, every
morning before he eats, goes out promenading with his saddle-beast;
nor mounts him, without first asking leave. But time
glides on, and grand old Pierre grows old: his life's glorious
grape now swells with fatness; he has not the conscience to
saddle his majestic beast with such a mighty load of manliness.
Besides, the noble beast himself is growing old, and has a
touching look of meditativeness in his large, attentive eyes.
Leg of man, swears grand old Pierre, shall never more bestride
my steed; no more shall harness touch him! Then every
spring he sowed a field with clover for his steed; and at midsummer
sorted all his meadow grasses, for the choicest hay to
winter him; and had his destined grain thrashed out with a
flail, whose handle had once borne a flag in a brisk battle, into
which this same old steed had pranced with grand old Pierre;
one waving mane, one waving sword!
Now needs must grand old Pierre take a morning drive; he
rides no more with the old gray steed. He has a phaeton
built, fit for a vast General, in whose sash three common men
springs; the wheels seem stolen from some mill; the canopied
seat is like a testered bed. From beneath the old archway, not
one horse, but two, every morning now draw forth old Pierre,
as the Chinese draw their fat god Josh, once every year from
out his fane.
But time glides on, and a morning comes, when the phaeton
emerges not; but all the yards and courts are full; helmets
line the ways; sword-points strike the stone steps of the porch;
muskets ring upon the stairs; and mournful martial melodies
are heard in all the halls. Grand old Pierre is dead; and like
a hero of old battles, he dies on the eve of another war; ere
wheeling to fire on the foe, his platoons fire over their old commander's
grave; in A. D. 1812, died grand old Pierre. The
drum that beat in brass his funeral march, was a British kettledrum,
that had once helped beat the vain-glorious march, for
the thirty thousand predestined prisoners, led into sure captivity
by that bragging boy, Burgoyne.
Next day the old gray steed turned from his grain; turned
round, and vainly whinnied in his stall. By gracious Moyar's
hand, he refuses to be patted now; plain as horse can speak,
the old gray steed says—“I smell not the wonted hand; where
is grand old Pierre? Grain me not, and groom me not;—
Where is grand old Pierre?”
He sleeps not far from his master now; beneath the field
he cropt, he has softly lain him down; and long ere this,
grand old Pierre and steed have passed through that grass to
glory.
But his phaeton—like his plumed hearse, outlives the noble
load it bore. And the dark bay steeds that drew grand old
Pierre alive, and by his testament drew him dead, and followed
the lordly lead of the led gray horse; those dark bay
steeds are still extant; not in themselves or in their issue; but
in the two descendants of stallions of their own breed. For
and this bright morning Pierre Glendinning, grandson
of grand old Pierre, now drives forth with Lucy Tartan, seated
where his own ancestor had sat, and reining steeds, whose
great-great-great-grandfathers grand old Pierre had reined before.
How proud felt Pierre: In fancy's eye, he saw the horse-ghosts
a-tandem in the van; “These are but wheelers”—cried
young Pierre—“the leaders are the generations.”
| Pierre, or, The ambiguities | |